


Always fight for love.

by snufflesmajor



Series: tumblr stories [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Depression, Sirius Black in Azkaban
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 09:21:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14375802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snufflesmajor/pseuds/snufflesmajor
Summary: Alwaysalwaysalwaysthere; taunting him, comforting him, pushing him, suffocating him.





	Always fight for love.

    Whispers. It was always whispers.

    Ever since the night Sirius’ world had ended, he’d heard nothing but whispers. Formless, incoherent; impossible to decode or even place. Whether they’d been in his mind or hissed at him from across the way was impossible to tell.

    All Sirius knew was they were there, he could hear them, he could  _feel_ them dancing along his skin.

    Was it a sign of madness? An echo unable to be properly understood amongst the never ending stream of  _horror_ assaulting him? In his sleep, he could hear them a little better. He could recognise the language (English, lyrical, sweet,  _safe–_ ), but it felt as though his ears were full of water. Whenever he strained to hear, whenever he grew closer to comprehension, he’d wake in a sweat with a bottomless hole of a face watching him.

    Soundlessly eating him and everything he’d ever been or would be.

    The whispers would muffle, too overcome with white noise, and he’d stare at the walls as the inside of his throat tore itself to shreds. When he’d screamed himself raw and eyed the other side of his cell, wondering if he had the strength left to hit his head hard enough against it, they’d rise in volume.

    And Sirius would laugh until he cried, until he voided his stomach, until he realised he hadn’t the muscle to end it all.

    He was trapped there until the end of his days. Just him and the screams and the whispers.

    Constant whispers. 

    Always. 

    Alwaysalways _always_  there; taunting him, comforting him, pushing him, suffocating him.

    Even as the Minister for Magic spoke to him some years (decades?) later, the constant chorus of unintelligible whispers haunted him. Even as he ignored them and asked for the paper, they were there. When he spied the front of the paper, saw who was there, realised the risk–

     Could he be sure? Of course he was sure, but he was mad, wasn’t he? No, there wasn’t a day he hadn’t seen Peter behind his eyes. Wasn’t a time during his imprisonment that memories of Peter hadn’t haunted him.

    But there was no way he could protect Harry from here. There was no one who would care, no one who would listen. Even Remus–Merlin, was he still alive? there’d been another moon, which meant another month he was alone. alone because of Sirius. alone and likely bleeding, possibly worse than the time–

    When had the whispers stopped?

    It was too quiet.

    Did that mean… Could Sirius finally surrender? Could he finally leave? Could he… he couldn’t protect, he was useless. He was the reason they’d died. The reason Harry was alone, why Remus was alone, why Peter was out there, why James and Lily had–why they’d–why they were–

    He couldn’t do a thing. He was nothing but skin draped over a skeleton. He was useless. Disgusting. Repugnant. Stupid.

    Oh, he wanted to murder Peter. He wanted to watch the life leave his eyes, then kill him again just in case. He wanted–

    But he was useless.

    He couldn’t do anything. Even if he could, the last time he’d fought he’d destroyed too much. It was his fault  _his fault his fault_ and there was nothing he could do. Nothing he could try. 

    It was time to give up. To surrender. To realise he was too far gone.

    Someone else– _no one else–_ he couldn’t fight any longer.

    It was time. His time. Time to be free. 

    As soon as Sirius laid himself down and closed his eyes, willing his heart to stop and his throat to constrict–he heard it.

    Clearly. 

     The whisper. The heat of soft skin against his ear. The phantom touch of fingers brushing the hair from his forehead. The smell of flowers, of love, of safety–

    “ _Always fight for love, Sirius._ ”

    His eyes opened, and even though it was dark, he swore he could see a touch of red by the bars of his window.

    He’d gone mad. Totally mad. Utterly off his rocker.

    She was dead. She was dead and it was his fault and she couldn’t believe in him. She couldn’t forgive him. She… she had to hate him, to blame him. Didn’t she? 

    He was mad. Even as he moved to his knees, he repeated it to himself. When he slipped into Padfoot, he reminded himself again.

    ‘ _I’ve lost it. I’m mental. I’m insane. It’s finally happened._ ’

    When he slipped through the bars and sneaked through the halls, he repeated it like a mantra. When his fur became wet in the frozen sea, it was a chorus. He was mad–totally bonkers–totally and utterly insane.

    But he was free, and he was the only one who could help. The only one who  _knew_ and the further he moved away from Hell, the less self deprecating he felt. By the time he was on solid land, he was practically singing it. Happily.

    He was insane and he was free and he’d see Harry– _Their Harry–_ and he could  _do something._

Such was his elation, he hardly noticed the absence of the whispers. It wouldn’t be for a time–a short time, but a time with some happiness–that he’d hear it again. 

    And when he did, he would recognise it immediately.

    And he’d thank her for forgiving him.

**Author's Note:**

> for 


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